Page 8 of Secret Crush

Chapter Three

The sweet smell of vanilla and strawberries dissipated as John pushed away from the group of people that surrounded him. He searched for Alice, who stood in the hall with many other people, all there for the farce of a wake. If he went back to her, the scent would return.

Everyone stared at him as they took seats in pews in the viewing room. After Vicki's death, he swore he'd never step foot inside this place again. His shoulders tightened. Baskets of flowers nearly obscured the casket. He gulped as his hands became fists. He marched toward his father's casket. The former President stood aside. The coast was clear.

In death, would his father's face be peaceful? More human? John's mind reeled on that one question. He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer. Mitch Morgan would never pay for any crime he'd committed now. Death had freed him from the consequences, not that John should be surprised.

His throat was parched. He turned back toward the hall to see Alice, rubbing her arms and hugging her waist—which he'd realized was a nervous habit—in conversation with Jennifer. Alice wasn't happy, but then he wouldn't want to talk to Peter's girlfriend either. Perhaps he'd been too judgmental with Alice earlier.

Of all Vicki's friends, only Alice had a smile which promised picnics and a home, complete with a rug and fireplace.

Right now she was the only thing that beamed any light into this place. He walked ahead until he saw Mitch Morgan.

The expression on his father's face as he lay in the casket read in his mind like "suckers". He'd assume multiple Presidents would be here, and that his son would show up too. Once again, Mitch Morgan won, just as he always did.

The rocks in his stomach churned. John leaned toward his father's corpse and whispered, "I guess Vicki avenged her own death. I'm happy someone, even if it was yourself, brought you down."

Souls might not go into the depths of fiery damnation, but if anyone deserved it, his father did. John stood up, seeing that he was alone.No one had heard.John swung around. His gaze met Alice's in the hallway. Her blue eyes held concern, but then she turned away.

A life with someone like her would be so different from everything he'd known. She'd guessed he'd turned out to be a professional poker player. He tugged on his ear. Alice seemed genuine, a rare diamond amongst the dark coals.

His hands curled into fists at his sides. The tension in his neck sent pains down his spine. He had to get away from these people, from this place, from his father. He took a step toward Alice, to apologize, but Peter overshadowed her standing at the door of the hall.

Now wasn't a good time to talk with him. John saw Peter's gaze shift to their father's casket. It must be his turn to say goodbye.

John stepped aside. He'd talk to Peter about this charade later. There was absolutely no way he'd stay at the mansion or in that house listed under his name that his father bought him. Tonight he'd disappear to a hotel nearby.

Tomorrow's funeral would be harder.

He watched as Alice excused herself from Jennifer and walked into the ladies room. When Jennifer wasn't smiling for an audience, her scowl seemed permanently embedded on her face.

Memories and old opinions flooded his brain. John needed fresh air to breathe. He strode past Peter and into the hall. A few minutes later, he found Alice talking to the last President as she clutched the pendant of her necklace.

At least Alice would have a story to share with her future children about meeting a former President. Most people John had met these past few years turned green and averted their eyes when he mentioned weekend stays at the White House. His neck tingled as he turned away to head to the door.

At Vicki's funeral, Alice had been sad, though she found time to check on him. Before he left for the early evening, he'd talk to her one more time.

Outside, the hot Florida sun beat down in the parking lot. He stepped into the crushing humidity, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. Here, he could think. He took off his jacket, but stilled as leaves crunched in the distant woods. He narrowed his gaze. If someone wanted to hurt them, they'd hide there.

It had to be the Secret Service keeping watch. His FBI badge weighed down his pants. Responsibility tore at him as he unbuttoned his suit jacket and took his gun from the slim side holster, revealing the badge clipped to the top of his slacks.

That life seemed over now. Miami, despite all its problems, was home. He'd needed change.

He'd think about this later. First, he'd go back in to talk to Peter and then he'd find a good drink to calm him down. The hotel had a bar. With luck, he'd be there soon. Tequila.

The hot, sticky sun made his palms moist. He put his gun in his back holster and untensed his fingers. He hadn't realized he was this wound up. He rolled his shoulders and tried to calm his thoughts.

The FBI had no more place in his life.

His father had once said he'd be a business failure. John fixed his tie and buttoned his suit coat to ensure his gun was hidden. It was time to prove him wrong.

From outside in the middle of the parking lot, he looked into the lobby. A young man was speaking to Alice. A blush stained her cheeks as she smiled at him.

Something ate at his gut as he headed back toward the funeral home.

John stopped walking when his phone rang and he took it from his back pocket. Fire spread through his veins as he read his caller ID and saw his boss's name. "Hello."

Smith asked in sharp, clipped words, "Where are you?"

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